


Shield

by Code16



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, The Genre Of Fantasy In Which There Are A Lot of Capital Letters, Torture, agony beams
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-16
Updated: 2016-02-16
Packaged: 2018-05-20 22:46:58
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,236
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6028303
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Code16/pseuds/Code16
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Even from the floor, John radiates the weight of his Shield training. “You have it,” he says. Almost a whisper; intense as his sword in silence. “It’s yours, all of it.” Harold has no doubt that, even were their hosts willing to violate the bond-rights of a Magician and a Shield, it would take approximately an army to pry John away from him."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [I got prompted for hurt!Harold on tumblr](http://findundergrounddragoutofwater.tumblr.com/post/139344608034/hello-i-love-your-writing-and-your-worlds-so-so).

“No,” said John suddenly, breaking away in the middle of another explanation on muscle tension and breathing. “No, this isn’t right, I’m going to go talk to the Mediary again this is my job it isn’t yours they can’t-”

“John.” Harold reached for his hand and took it, breaking him off in the middle of the sentence. They’d gone over this before, more than once since the Mediary had first come out to them, with formal greetings and the laying out of their Sovereign’s terms. “We both know the Codex. However little they might customarily make use of it, it is their right to ask the Greeting of the Magician and not of his Shield.”

John looks at him, his eyes naked in his distress. “No,” he says again, more plea than injunction. And Harold knew, had known, that John would take the described agony of the Greeting a dozen times over before he would see Harold subjected to it. But that’s not a choice either of them have.

“We need their goodwill,” he says, repeating, again, what John already knows. “This isn’t a price we can refuse.” John presses his forehead against Harold’s chair. 

“What if I say I don’t give a fuck for their goodwill.”

“I won’t believe you.” John had endured the Greeting before, in his previous postings. Had withstood it, was alive and well beside Harold. On their journey before this unexpected reversal of terms, trying to prepare himself for seeing it, Harold had attempted to comfort himself with that.

As his Shield, John will be allowed to hold him, give the support of his contact as Harold screamed, keep him off the floor if Harold collapsed. (When.) Harold would not have had that. “Anymore than I would believe you if you said you did not care that I had chosen this. That I had taken our work, and its hazards, onto myself. As you did.” 

He brushes his fingers against John’s face, gently. “I know, I understand, this isn’t an experience to be desired.” Harold feels his body shake, a little. He has, in some respects, been attempting not think about that aspect, concentrating on the diplomatic details, on John’s advice. On John. “But it is an experience, and it will be over. With your assistance - I have no doubt I will carry through.”

Even from the floor, John radiates the weight of his Shield training. “You have it,” he says. Almost a whisper; intense as his sword in silence. “It’s yours, all of it.” Harold has no doubt that, even were their hosts willing to violate the bond-rights of a Magician and a Shield, it would take approximately an army to pry John away from him.

“I know,” he says. It’s insufficient. His words often are; he’s learned that, as a Magician. It’s what he has. Harold presses his hand over John’s.

A bell rings at the door.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And then I wrote a sequel

The next time, the next place, Harold does get to watch.

John doesn’t scream. He cringes against the floor, curls into himself. Like the unyielding ground might take mercy and shelter him. (Harold had screamed. His throat had felt torn, after. John had made him tea with honey, like he did when Harold chanted magic for too long).

The ground takes no mercy. The Caster takes no mercy.

(In between the spasms, Harold remembered John’s hands, John’s body. Warm and solid and careful. “Breathe,” he’d whispered, inaudible outside their circle. “Harold, you have to breathe.”)

Outside the circle, strides away, Harold can offer no such comfort. In the pauses, John uncurls somewhat. Breathes. Once, he opens his eyes and meets Harold’s. Manages a smile. It feels like being stabbed.

When it’s over, when the last pause ends, John pulls himself to his feet. Bows. Not quite steady, but standing.

“Thank you for your hospitality.” (Harold had not been able to stand. Even the brief, effortful minutes he usually has were beyond him. John had held him up, so he could complete the ritual).

Harold wishes other words were allowed to him. Fire, maybe. Lightning.  
“Thank you for your hospitality,” he says.

John can come sit by him, afterwards. He picks his sword back up to strap it on, first. Harold can see his hands are shaking. (The tremors had taken hours to subside. John had held his cup for him, unfastened buttons. Turned pages in his book).

Harold wishes desperately he could reach out, touch. He settles for moving his leg as far to the edge as he can, closest to the panel where John’s place is. He’s grateful when John only hesitates before leaning back against him, not forcing himself upright longer than he has to. 

(They’d let John bring him back to their quarters, after. Said it in elevated language he could barely make sense of at the time, had to run through his head to decompose in retrospect.) John is given no such reprieve. They go through the full set of greeting, introductions, formalities. Harold keeps his voice formal and polite, repeats words from his scroll and the ones he knows by heart. It feels barely endurable. It feels like any moment he will jump up and scream at them. He concentrates on John’s warmth, his weight against his leg. He stays where he should be.

John walks back to their quarters himself. Harold can see what it costs him, each step. Propels his own chair beside him. 

“I’m feeling somewhat unsteady,” he says when they’re barely to the hall. “I require your presence. Place your left hand above my shoulder.” John can’t muster his usual look, but he does a good personation. Harold didn’t really expect to fool him. “As you command,” John replies, formally. He’d complain, but Harold can read the relief in the lines of his body.

“I’m fine,” says John when the door finally closes behind them. He sits down hard on the bed. Harold doesn’t think it was on purpose. “You shouldn’t worry about me.”

“Whoever taught you the meaning of fine should be sent for reeducation,” Harold observes. (He’s fairly certain Magician Kara Stanton had something to do with it). He’d set out food with strengthening properties earlier, a blanket with a spell of warmth. He fetches them now.

(“I could kill them,” John had said to him. “Well, not all of them, probably. But a few.” “I think that might defeat the purpose,” Harold had responded. The words had actually seemed to do what he wanted them to, which felt like a surprise.) “I could kill them,” Harold says now. “Well, not all of them, probably. But a few.” (The Caster, maybe, he finds himself considering. It still horrifies him to imagine that there are people who take that role on. Who consider it a high honor). John smiles at him again, like a spring evening at the end of battle, maybe. But not like a stab wound.   
“I think that might defeat the purpose.”

They won’t be called in for talks again until morning. The door is locked and warded, the walls are secure against scrying and eavesdroppers. Harold can say what he wishes. He can touch John all he wants. A twist of his mind transfers him to the bed beside John, calls a plate from the table and an extra pillow from the couch.

There’ll be time for other purposes later. Right now, his focus is only for one.

**Author's Note:**

> [My tumblr for these kinds of things](http://findundergrounddragoutofwater.tumblr.com). I love fandom social things, and anyone who feels like they might want to message etc me for any reason is encouraged to totally do so.


End file.
